On the walls were framed Coca-Cola ads and severely posed photographs of family groupings. From a battery-operated record player crooned, improbably, an American twang:
Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone.
Thomas was offered a glass of warm beer that he drank straight down. Mary laughed and poured him another. He tried not to look too surprised when she told him that she, too, was a poet, and that she had a degree in forensic medicine from the university at Kampala. She’d retreated to the family shamba, she explained, for the birth of her first child, who was then a month old. She asked him why he was in the country. He was in the country, he said, because Regina was, and Regina was in the country because she had a grant to study the psychological effects of sub-Saharan diseases on Kenyan children under ten years old. The grant was with UNICEF. From time to time, Thomas noticed, Ndegwa retreated to the back of the house to speak with men who had come especially to see him, and Thomas vaguely understood it had something to do with politics.
—
My husband says you are a wonderful poet.
—
Your husband is very kind.
—
In your country, writing poems is not dangerous work?
—
In my country, writing poems isn’t considered work.
—
In my country, such a thing is sometimes very dangerous. But you are not writing of my country?
—
No. I don’t know it well enough.
—
Ah,
said Mary enigmatically, patting him on the knee.
And you will not.
Two sisters brought in a sufuria filled with pieces of burnt goat. A leg bone was sticking out. Ndegwa sliced the crispy black meat on a wooden table with a machete and passed bowls of the glistening goat around the room. Thomas held his plate in his lap until he watched Mary use her fingers. The grease on the rhinestone was fantastic.
The eating was painful. Ndegwa presented Thomas with a bowl of choice morsels reserved for the guest of honor. He explained that these were the goat’s organs
—
the heart, lungs, liver and brain
—
and that they were sweet. To encourage Thomas, Ndegwa drank the raw blood which had been drained from the goat when it was slaughtered. Refusing the delicacies was not, Thomas already knew from having been in the country half a year, an option
—
not without embarrassment to himself and insult to Ndegwa. Thomas didn’t care whether he himself was embarrassed, but he guessed he didn’t want to insult his teacher. His gorge rose. He stuck his fingers into the pot, closed his eyes, and ate.
Another African experience, he knew at once, that could never be described.
After a time, Mary rose and said they must all excuse her because she was uncomfortable and needed to nurse her baby. Ndegwa laughed and added,
Her breasts are so big, she is now a bent tree.
The good-byes, Thomas remembered, had taken an hour.
—
Now you know where to find us, you will come again,
Ndegwa said to Thomas when he was leaving.
—
Yes, thank you.
—
Don’t get scarce.
—
No. I won’t.
—
We will have two goats next time.
—
Perfect,
Thomas said.
—
When will the arrest be?
Thomas asked Ndegwa at the café.
—
In a week? Two weeks? In five days? I do not know.
Ndegwa flipped his hand back and forth.
—
Is a poem worth dying for?
Ndegwa licked his lips.
I am a symbol to many who are like me. I am a better symbol arrested, where my people can hear of me and read of me, than if I flee.
Thomas nodded, trying to comprehend the political act. Trying to understand the reasoning of a man who would put himself and his family at risk for an idea. All through history men had died in droves for ideas. Whereas he couldn’t think of a single idea worth dying for.
He wanted to tell Ndegwa that his work was too good, that it shouldn’t be sacrificed for politics. But who was he to say? In this country of so much suffering, who could afford the luxury of art?
—
Stay with Regina and me,
Thomas said.
They’ll never look for you in Karen.
—
We shall see,
Ndegwa said. Noncommittal, having committed himself elsewhere. As good as arrested already.
The big man stood. Thomas, shaken, rose with him. A feeling of helplessness overtook him.
Tell me what I can do,
Thomas said.
Ndegwa looked away and then back again.
You will go to visit my wife.
—
Yes,
Thomas said.
Of course.
—
This you will promise me.
—
Yes.
And did he see then, on Ndegwa’s face, the tiniest flicker of fear?
Thomas paid for the beers and left the Thorn Tree. He felt dizzy and disoriented. It was the beer on an empty stomach. Or Ndegwa’s news. A man approached him, naked but for a paper bag. The bag was slit up the sides to allow for legs, and the man was holding the two openings closed with his fists. He looked as though he were wearing diapers. His hair was dirty with bits of different-colored lint. He stopped in front of Thomas
—
the American, the easy mark. Thomas emptied his pockets into a pouch the man had slung around his neck.
He needed to find Regina.
He passed the street that led to the Hotel Gloria, where he and Regina had spent their first night in the country, not realizing it was a brothel. The sink had been stopped up with a brown matter he hadn’t wanted to investigate, and when they’d woken, they’d been covered with fleas. A woman was passing him now, carrying a child on her back, the baby’s eyes clouded with flies. Thomas needed a drink of water. Colors seemed louder now, more garish; sounds bolder and brighter than they’d been an hour ago. He remembered the first time he’d seen a long red trail of shiny ants and how he’d realized too late they were crawling up his leg. At Gil Gil, a naked woman had lain motionless on the asphalt paving of the courtyard. Naked men had hung from barred windows. They had spit at his feet. Why were so many without clothing in this country? The vision in his right eye was replacing itself with hundreds of bright moving dots. Not a migraine, please, he thought
—
not now.
SCHOOLGIRL DIES AFTER CIRCUMCISION
. He remembered the night express to Mombasa, the rhythm of the rails sexually intoxicating. He and Regina had shared a narrow bunk, and it had been a tender night between them, a kind of truce. He’d been reading
Maurice,
by E. M. Forster. Where had he left the book? He’d like to read it again. Kenyans hated homosexuals, never mentioned them, as though they simply didn’t exist. Rich was coming, and maybe Thomas would let him chew the twigs. What had his mother written? The gas lines were terrible.
THREE AMERICANS BEHEADED
. Would the car still be there? Or had he not paid enough? Pots and clothing were for sale in the street. A storefront window advertised a Cuisinart. Regina would be seriously worried now. He’d had Welsh rarebit yesterday at the Norfolk, and in his imagination he could still taste it. In reality, he could taste the Tusker. Words. They haunted him in the night. Once twenty lions had walked past him. He had stood frozen, at the side of the car, unable even to open the door to get in. Regina screaming silently from within. They’d gone up to Keekorok with a low battery and four bald tires. The gearshift had come off in his hand. Another time, on a safari, when everyone had left camp, he’d stayed behind to write. He’d been attacked by baboons, and had had to fend them off with a wooden spoon and a metal pot.
WITCH DOCTOR HELD IN RUGBY FIX. MAN CAUGHT IN ZEBRA TRAP
. At a party at the embassy, a woman in a white suit had taken him for a spy. The air in Karen tasted like champagne. It was even better in the Ngong Hills. He longed for their coolness, for the green of them. He leaned his head against the wall of a building, the cement hot and rough, not soothing. Regina would have the medicine in her purse. If only he could get to a quiet room. He remembered a cave with thousands of bats overhead, Regina falling to her knees, terrified. He’d pleaded with her to move, and in the end, he’d had to drag her out bodily.
I am just all right. I have no bad luck.
A pleasantry, not meant to be taken as truth. Ndegwa was having spectacularly bad luck. Or was he simply creating it?
RAINS CAUSE HAVOC. POOR WATCH HOMES BULLDOZED. AMBULANCE FOUND FULL OF IVORY
. Regina would be furious at first, angry to have been kept waiting. But she’d relent when she saw the migraine.
In the market, he let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The stench was even worse now, and he was trying to breathe through his mouth. The people and stalls in the market took shape, photographs emerging from a bath. He saw a woman in a kanga, the cloth wrapped tightly around her hips. She had a lovely, muscular ass. Ndegwa had looked at African women, whereas he, Thomas, was noticing the long, narrow waist of a white woman, the way her cotton blouse billowed over the kanga. And then his chest was so tight, he had to suck the fetid air to breathe.
It was not possible, he thought. Even as he knew it was.
The pain stayed, but his head cleared. The disturbance in his vision subsided. She had her back to him, her long slender back. A basket over her arm. She was bent slightly toward a display of pineapples, examining them for ripeness. A long row of silver bracelets on her right wrist jingled as she moved her hand. Her legs were bare from mid-calf to foot. He looked at the slim, tanned legs, the dusty heels, the leather sandals, well worn. Was it possible he was mistaken? Never. About this he could not be mistaken. The hair a miracle, blonder than he remembered. Tied in a loose knot at the back of her neck.
Now the woman was paying for her pineapple. She turned and moved in his direction. For a moment, she looked quizzical, straw basket in one hand, the wallet in the other. Her face was leaner, not as rounded as he remembered. Even in the gloom of the market, he could see the gold cross. He heard the gasp.
—
Thomas,
the woman said.
She took a step forward.
—
Is it really you?
He put his hands in his pockets, afraid that he might inadvertently touch her. Her presence a grenade, detonating.
—
Linda.
His mouth already dry.
She smiled tentatively and cocked her head.
—
What are you doing here?
What
was
he doing in Africa? It seemed a valid question.
—
I’ve been here. A year.
—
Really? So have I. Nearly, anyway.
Her eyes slid off his own for just a second, and the smile flickered. She wouldn’t have seen the scar before.
—
This is very strange,
he said.
An elderly man in a royal-blue jacket approached him and tugged at his sleeve. Thomas was rigid, unable to move, as though he might shatter something important. He watched as Linda reached into her wallet and took out shillings. The beggar, appeased, moved away.
She put the backs of her fingers to her nose, assaulted by one of the smells that wafted through the building. He thought her fingers might be trembling. Regina would be somewhere, waiting for him now.
Regina.
He struggled to say something sane.
—
My wife is with UNICEF.
The words
my wife
not possible, he thought. Not here. Not now.
—
Oh,
she said.
I see.
Thomas glanced at her fingers for a wedding band. Something that might have been a ring on her left hand.
You’re in Nairobi?
—
No. I’m in the Peace Corps. In Njia.
—
Oh,
he said.
I’m surprised.
—
Why?
—
I never figured you for the Peace Corps.
—
Well. People change.
—
I suppose they do.
—
Have you changed?
He thought.
I don’t think so.
His lips were dry, and he had to lick them. His breathing was too shallow, and he needed air. The pain in his temple was excruciating. Regina would have the medicine in her purse. He put a hand to his head, almost before he realized he’d done so.
—
You have a migraine.